


That Day

by goodtimesbadtimes



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Brotherly Love, Decent ending, Drugs, Loneliness, Lonely Sherlock, Loving Mycroft, Mycroft-centric, POV Mycroft Holmes, Sad Sherlock, Teenlock, mycroft saving sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 16:31:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9450392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodtimesbadtimes/pseuds/goodtimesbadtimes
Summary: A tortured 15 year old Sherlock runs away, leaving Mycroft to save Sherlock from himself. Set on "that day" that Mycroft mention in The Abominable Bride.





	

“That Day”

_Three weeks, 18 hours, 52 minutes._ That was how long it had been since Mycroft last saw Sherlock. Mycroft had it on good insight that Sherlock was held up in a warehouse; why he was there, Mycroft could not tell. 

_I’m bored Myke, BORED._ Sherlock’s words rang in Mycroft’s head, but he quickly shuffled them away.

Looking at the derelict building, Mycroft read it like a computer screen:

                                                    Occupants:13 

                  Last entrance: 23 minutes ago

               Square footage: 13,062 Possible exits     

                                    Sherlock’s Location: sixth floor, third window from the left

_It was the only window left uncovered,_ Mycroft thought. _Sherlock, brother dearest, always likes to look out at the city._

Mycroft straightened his blue pinstripe suit, not so much out of awareness of his appearance, but out of habit. Glancing one last time at his immaculate shoes, he stepped into the grimy building. As the door swung shut, extinguishing the evening light, Mycroft’s eyes began to adjust to the darkness and he examined his surroundings. Well, there was not much to be seen, in fact, just the sprawling, open-spaced warehouse. Garbage and filth littered the floor, but Mycroft trudged towards the eastern staircase. The preceding five floors were all similar: many rooms, what appeared to have previously been offices, and people meandering with various levels of awareness regarding their location.

Upon reaching the sixth floor, Mycroft leaned on his umbrella for stability. The scene he found should not have shaken him so, but it was his little brother. The baby he held; the toddler he taught to speak; the child he played pirate with; and finally the angst-ridden teenager on a dirty mattress by the window. Sherlock’s mossy curls were covering his eyes, nearly his nose too. The rest of his hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, useless at this point for his hair was crusted with vomit.

Although Sherlock was always slender, unlike Mycroft who had always been stout (despite recent weight loss), this was not the same. Sherlock looked as if he had barely eaten in the past weeks he had been gone. What he could see of Sherlock’s face was gaunt and he was swimming in the purple hoodie and ripped blue jeans he donned. Through the holes in the fabric Mycroft could make out Sherlock’s knobby knees; scrapped, bruised and bloody.

“Oh, Sherlock.” Mycroft emitted unconsciously. Sherlock lifted his head ever so slightly and leered at Mycroft’s stern face, aged far too much for his young age. Mycroft took swift strides, his long legs unconsciously taking him to his brother. Leaning against the wall, he lowered himself down to sit cautiously next to his brother’s head.

_“_ M-Myke? Where- Why are you here?” Sherlock stumbled over his words. He tried to sit up, but resulted in keeling back over; one hand on his stomach, the other clutching his head. 

Mycroft moved Sherlock’s hand away from his face and ardently pushed up the sweatshirt sleeve. Written on his arm, a record of where Sherlock had been hiding. Different holes lined up, different bruises to match; all evident of weeks of drug use. 

“What have you taken?” Mycroft asked.

“Why don't you deduce it, _brother_?” Sherlock tried to shift himself away, but to no avail.

Mycroft watched, he _felt_ , his brother pulling away from him. “Just-“ Mycroft took a deep breath, “Just tell me what you took!” Sherlock flinched at Mycroft’s barely raised voice.

“Don’t ask stupid questions. I don't know where I am or how I got here. How can you bloody expect me to list off all the— ” Sherlock’s scathing response was interrupted by his retching and he started to shake.

Mycroft’s body stiffened at the sight of Sherlock like that, but he pulled him closer none the less. With Sherlock’s upper body resting now,/ in Mycroft’s lap, he whispered, “Tell me _why_ you took whatever it is you may have taken?”

Sherlock managed to scoff in between choking coughs, “Don’t be thick. I’m supposed to be the slow one, remember now.”

“Why did this… Who drove you to this?”

“Non ducor.”

“‘I am not led,’ if I’m remembering correctly, _fratrem_?” Mycroft glanced down to see Sherlock nod, then proceeded to leaning his head against the wall and close his eyes for a moment,“Then tell me, what it is that I am missing?”

“Do you not feel lonely, Myke? Are you not alienated from your fellow pencil-pushers in government? If I am slow to you, does not the world drive you mad?”

All Mycroft could manage was a short, “You are not slow to me.”

Sherlock shook off Mycroft’s answer and continued, “I don’t want to be like this” he bemoaned, “I’m bored, Myke. That is it; that is all. I needed something, anything, to stop my mind from torturing me so.” He paused for a second, before paraphrasing his beloved brother in saying, “Alone may protect me, but it doesn’t fulfill me.” Sherlock’s voice trailed off only to become a quiet sob. 

“Sherlock, it’s alright, I'm here now” Mycroft was desperately trying to curtail the break in his voice. A tear rolled down Mycroft’s angular face and crashed softly on Sherlock’s back. Sherlock finally turned over in Mycroft’s lap, his blue eyes meeting Sherlock’s ever-changing-blue-to-green eyes. _They are the only part of his face still living._

“I am not naive enough to assume this will never happen again.” Mycroft expressed, returning to his usual icy demeanor. “But you must promise me, Sherlock. You must promise me that you will keep a list of what you have taken. For whenever I find you, _wherever_ I find you, I can help you.” Mycroft wavered for a moment the ice in his voice melting, “And I will find you. I’ll _always_ be there for you.”

Sherlock was still trembling, unable to speak, but Mycroft could feel the tears his baby brother on his leg. Mycroft lifted up his sickly body and threw Sherlock’s arms around his neck. Blades of light broke in through the boarded windows as they walked the halls. The Holmes boys exited the hellish landscape, Mycroft holding Sherlock in the same way he always had as a child: Mycroft’s mind momentarily flashed back to all those times he carried a tired Sherlock to bed; all those times he hauled an injured Sherlock back to the house to care for a skinned knee.

Returning to the present, Mycroft found himself brushing the long, knotted curls back from Sherlock’s face. He whispered one final proclamation before continuing their journey home in silence; one proclamation Mycroft is still unsure Sherlock ever heard:

“I fear my sentiment… _for you_ , brother mine, will be my downfall”

**Finis**

**Author's Note:**

> Okay just a couple things I want to mention:  
> I added a little bit of my high school latin, so fingers crossed I was remembering correctly  
> And thank you so much for reading and if you want to just tell me what you think of it that would be great :)) I'm still pretty new at this so I could use all the feedback you can give <33


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